The White Earth (21 page)

The wall of fire came rushing up the hill. There was no time to do anything, no defence to be prepared, no line to be drawn and held. Men simply scattered as the flames bore down, the trees behind them exploding in fiery expectoration. The only safety lay on the far side of the ridge. John laboured upwards as best he could, his bad leg singing. Ash and flaming cinders rained down about him and smoke whipped along through the trees ahead, black and choking. He scrambled through tinder dry undergrowth, until suddenly he was out of the trees, running over grass and rock. Above him the ridge crested in a bald crown against a pale dawn sky. Turning on his heel, he looked back and beheld a terrible thing. The entire mountainside was aflame, but worse, in the gully below him, lost amid the smoke and raining debris, a single figure staggered.

It was Oliver Fisher. He was grimed black with ash, and his hands were cupped over his eyes in a vain attempt to see as he coughed and retched. John yelled out, but his voice was tossed away by the wind. Smoke obscured Oliver for a moment, and then he was visible again, on his knees, his head turning blindly. John gauged the progress of the fire. Were there ten seconds before it swallowed them, were there thirty? Was there time to get down to Oliver, to drag him back up the slope? Could he even manage it, with his bad leg, and Oliver disorientated and perhaps unconscious by then?

The instant of hesitation seemed to last forever. And then John saw a monster step out of the smoke. It was a tornado of flames, a giant eddy in the firestorm, crowned with the white-hot sparks of detonating leaves. The whirlwind howled, swayed this way and that in search of prey, and then curled gleefully to engulf Oliver where he crouched. John stayed stricken for one last second, long enough to see his employer rear up, a flailing, burning shape of arms and legs. Then the whole slope below was one torrent, gushing upwards. He fled. Fire licked his heels, singed the hair from the back of his head and set his shirt smouldering, but he dashed across the hilltop, leapt over a low cliff on the far side, and fell to the earth. A great sheet of solid flame streamed into the sky above him. It roared in frustration for a time, and then, deprived of fuel at last, it fluttered, wavered, and died.

Two other men were lost that morning, besides Oliver.

It was the beginning of the worst fire the mountains had seen in decades, and no one knew who or what had ignited it. Either way, it was only after another week of fire-fighting that John, still scorched and blackened, made his way down from the mountains and called on Harriet. Her father’s body had preceded him. There wasn’t much they could say to each other. John was exhausted, and Harriet was devastated. It meant that the two of them never discussed Harriet’s pregnancy. It was simply swept up in events, and accepted. Nor did John ever tell Harriet that he’d witnessed her father’s last moments, or that he and Oliver had argued so violently about her, only the night before.

His own behaviour in that crucial moment, the hesitation between action and inaction, was something that John long refused to examine. It was only later that he would wonder if, underneath his horror of the fire, he had felt a surge of exultation when he’d seen Oliver trapped in that gully — an excited certainty that Oliver would die, and that with him every obstacle between himself and Harriet and her money would disappear. And later still would come a darker conviction. For the fire had in fact begun in the easternmost reaches of Kuran Station, before sweeping up into the mountains. And so John would return to the memory — the rushing flames, and a frenzied, burning figure — and savour it as a gift both precious and awesome. For his secret belief was that, in his hour of greatest need, the hills of his station had ignited by themselves that night, and so devoured his enemy.

Within a month, John and Harriet were married. In accordance with Oliver’s will, his estate was split between his children — two-thirds to Matthew, one-third to Harriet. The money involved was something of a disappointment, however, especially to John. It turned out that Oliver had squandered much of his wealth on the stock market and at the racetrack. Still, John and Harriet began their married life in comfort at the Fisher residence, and John and Matthew took over management of the sawmills. Two years later, as the war drew to a close and the timber supply in the Hoops approached exhaustion, they decided to shut down the mills and sell off the equipment. They sold the Fisher family home too, and Oliver’s legacy was complete. John and Harriet’s share was no grand fortune, certainly not enough for John to consider buying Kuran Station. It was, however, enough to purchase a wheat farm on the Kuran Plains.

At the age of thirty-one, thus, John McIvor finally became an independent landowner. The pride of it filled him to the brim. He had studied the available properties carefully, and chosen a six hundred and forty acre block, one square mile, consisting of the deepest and darkest black soil. It was not Kuran Station by any comparison — but the hill upon which the House sat was clearly visible, seven or eight miles away across the plains, and John knew that this was all the start he needed to reach it.

He was a father now too, of course. Harriet had given birth to a healthy, dark-haired girl, whom they named Ruth. And little Ruth was in Harriet’s arms when John and his family went to the Powell train station to greet Dudley, the soldier finally returning home from war.

Chapter Twenty-two

F
OR WILLIAM, THE MONTH LEADING UP TO THE RALLY TOOK forever to pass. It was the biggest event the Australian Independence League had ever attempted, and his uncle seemed to have a thousand things to organise. There were marquees to be hired and erected on the site, portable toilets to be installed, cartons of toilet paper to be ordered, firewood to be cut and stockpiled, lighting and a public address system to be set up, and then an electric generator to power it all. Delivery trucks left great piles of gear at the House, or went directly up into the hills to the campground.

Amidst all this excitement, William’s only concern was his ear. The ache was never acute, but it was ever present, a throb that seemed to penetrate deep within his skull. Finally he mentioned it to his mother. She had Dr Moffat’s prescription filled, and over the next ten days William swallowed antibiotics. The pain seemed to fade slightly, but to be honest, he wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, he told his mother that he felt better. Both she and the doctor had appeared to regard an earache as a minor annoyance, something that every child had to put up with, and he didn’t want to sound weak. Besides, it would be a disaster if the rally arrived and William was banished to his bedroom just because his ear was hurting.

Meanwhile, through all the preparations, he’d quite forgotten that the great event wasn’t just a party, that it also had a serious purpose. One night, however, about a week before the big day, he was in the living room after dinner, curled up quietly on a chair while his mother watched a current affairs show. William was paying no attention, but then he overheard two familiar words. He looked up at the television. On the hazy screen he could see a man being interviewed in the studio. The man was answering a question, and the topic, it seemed, was Native Title.

‘…so let me tell you about terra nullius. Part of the theory is that the Aborigines didn’t work the land, they just left it as they found it, and so therefore they had no rights of ownership. But that isn’t quite true. They did what they could, with very limited resources. Australia was no paradise. It didn’t have any native plants suitable for large-scale farming — no wheat or barley or cotton or any of the rest. It didn’t have the right sort of animals for domestication either, no sheep or cows. It wasn’t until Europeans brought those plants and animals that you could farm the way we do now, with paddocks and fences. In the meantime the Aborigines farmed the only way that was viable…’

William glanced at his mother. Normally she would have switched something like this off. But she only stared at the screen, glassy-eyed and far away.

‘…then the High Court led the way with the Mabo judgment. It recognised finally that terra nullius was always a lie, and now the government is responding to historical reality with the Native Title legislation. This country was Aboriginal land and it was stolen from them without compensation. That was unfair. For a century and a half Aboriginal people have been herded into missions or deserts or urban ghettos and forgotten about. That’s unfair too. They’ve had no proper access to education or health services or employment — many of them couldn’t even vote until the ’60s. All of that’s unfair, and the effects will last for generations, but Native Title is at least the first step in righting the wrong…’

William watched attentively. It was strange. He had listened to the radio for hours with his uncle, and heard all sorts of discussions about the new laws and how bad they would be. This was the first time he had heard anyone who seemed to think they were a good thing.

‘…but if your land is freehold, Native Title won’t touch it. It shouldn’t even touch pastoral leases. In fact, the whole point of the legislation is to
protect
pastoral leases. Okay, a very few of them might still be open to claim, but only if there has been an ongoing Aboriginal presence on the land — and that’s going to be hard to prove. And even if a claim is successful, all the lease-holder will have to do is share some access with the traditional owners, and consult with them about any major works which might affect cultural sites on the property. It’s hardly stealing farms away... ’

Strange and puzzling. It didn’t even sound like the same law that made his uncle so angry. William looked at his mother again. Was she listening? He had never asked her what she thought about his uncle’s business. Or even about the rally.

‘Mum?’

She blinked at him, her eyes slowly focusing.‘What?’

‘You know what the rally is for, don’t you?’

‘Your uncle is spending a lot of money, that’s all I know.’

‘But those new laws. Do you think they’re a good thing or a bad thing?’

She rubbed her forehead.‘Christ, Will, it isn’t up to me.’

‘Uncle John says…’

‘William, not now! Whatever your uncle says, that’s fine with me. Just keep on his good side. All right?’

William let it go. But the next day he told his uncle what he had heard on television.

His uncle raised an eyebrow. ‘You saw that, did you? Well, I always told you, some people are for these new laws. Not that they really understand. Or did you think he was right?’

‘I don’t know … no. But…’

‘Hmm.’ The old man considered his nephew for a long moment. Then he rose from his desk. ‘Tell you what — I was about to go and check on progress out at the campground. Why don’t you come along?

William agreed, happy for the chance of a drive, and they climbed into the utility. It was a fine blue day. Spring was well advanced now, and the sun was warm again. But his uncle’s mood grew serious as they wound their way along the track into the hills. Dust hung in the air. No rain had fallen and fields looked parched. If it stayed this dry, the old man noted grimly, then desperate measures might need to be taken, like selling off even more of the cattle. The creek was empty, and the Condamine River, he’d heard, had stopped flowing. What about the water hole? William asked. Wouldn’t there still be water there? His uncle nodded. The pool would be sunken, but yes, the spring in the cave meant there was always water, in that one place at least. Perhaps when the rally was over and they had some time to spare, they would even go swimming.

They drove on to the campground, a cleared space at the foot of a broad hill. William remembered the windmill that stood there, with a water tank beside it, and a trough. A cardboard sign directed visitors towards a large parking area marked off with orange plastic tape. Beyond that, on the lower slopes of the hill, and shaded by widely spaced gum trees, was the camp itself. There were stacks of firewood here and there, and fire pits carefully marked out with stones. Still higher up the slope were several mounds of folded canvas, and a mess of ropes and pegs. It was here too that makeshift lampposts had been erected, and already light bulbs were hanging from wires that stretched between them. And finally, up above it all, on the crown of the hill, William could glimpse, as he had once before, a circle of standing stones, dark amidst the trees.

The whole site looked thrilling. It was a circus before the crowds arrived, but even better, it was William’s own circus, away off in the hills and bush, which only a secret few knew about. His uncle drove directly through the camping area, up onto the shoulder of the hill, and parked by the folded tents. They climbed out and took in the view — the brown hills rolling away to distant wheat fields out on the plains, and the mountains marching along the eastern horizon. The sun was bright, a gentle breeze blew and the air smelled of eucalyptus and cattle.

‘Well?’ his uncle asked.‘You think it’ll do?’

William nodded fervently.

The old man indicated the piles of canvas. ‘We’ll get the marquee set up a day or two before the weekend. If by any chance it rains, we’ll want somewhere under cover to set up the PA and hold the sessions.’

‘What about our tent?’ said William.

‘We might not need one. Just sleep out under the stars.’ He smiled at William’s disappointment. ‘No — we can set it up wherever we like. We’ll have first choice, which is lucky. Believe me, the whole ground will be full, by the time everyone arrives and gets unpacked.’

They stood there for a time, listening to the deep quiet of the hills. Two crows glided between the trees below, calling out their strangled laments.

The old man stirred. ‘We could have held the rally near the House, you know. It would have been simpler. But there’s a reason I chose to have it here.’

‘Why?’

‘Come on. This is what I want you to see.’

He turned and led William up the slope. At the top of the hill there was a wide belt of trees that formed a ring around the crown, tall gums with reaching limbs and smooth white bark. Deep shade fell between them, but beyond, upon the actual hilltop, there was a wide empty circle of sunlight. And here were the standing stones that were half-visible from below — although up close William could see that the rocks were not really free-standing. The brow of the hill was weathered away, and a jumble of boulders and rocky protrusions had emerged from deep in the soil, like broken teeth. The larger ones formed a roughly ovoid pattern about a central grassy space.